


three hundred and sixty six

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anniversary, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 14:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10855812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: One year.He can’t believe it’s only been a year.He feels like he’s known Grantaire forever; Grantaire is familiar down to his bones, through and through, like he’s been a part of Enjolras for long before they even existed. Enjolras never fancied himself a poet or a romantic—and yet, there’s something about Grantaire that makes it all so easy. He bleeds art, creativity bursts out of him hidden in layers of cynicism and sarcasm and an undying love for Enjolras that neither of them will ever truly understand. Enjolras is remarkably happy.***In which it's only been a year, they've got thousands of miles between them, and they still find a way to make it work.





	three hundred and sixty six

**Author's Note:**

> For Charlotte.
> 
> It was one hell of a year.

When Enjolras wakes up, the first thing he notices is that Grantaire is still in bed. His body is curved against Enjolras, a perfect fit; his hands are splayed against Enjolras’ stomach and hip and his curls are tickling the skin of Enjolras’ neck. For a moment, it takes his breath away.

 

He still can’t believe Grantaire is _here_ —warm and lovely and everything and nothing Enjolras expected him to be. Seemingly of their own accord, his arms tighten around Grantaire. They’ve spent the last week together, finally, and this is the first time Enjolras has woken up to Grantaire still in bed. His heart is stuttering in his chest, and he panics for a moment thinking that it will wake Grantaire up. But instead, Grantaire just sighs contently and nuzzles in closer. Enjolras can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

 

One year.

 

He can’t believe it’s only been a year.

 

He feels like he’s known Grantaire _forever_ ; Grantaire is familiar down to his bones, through and through, like he’s been a part of Enjolras for long before they even existed. Enjolras never fancied himself a poet or a romantic—and yet, there’s something about Grantaire that makes it all so easy. He _bleeds_ art, creativity bursts out of him hidden in layers of cynicism and sarcasm and an undying love for Enjolras that neither of them will ever truly understand. Enjolras is _remarkably_ happy.

 

Grantaire’s starting to stir in his arms, pressing lazy kisses to the bare skin of his chest and making small noises as he drags himself into consciousness. Enjolras lets him take his time, kisses his forehead and runs his fingers through dark curls until he feels Grantaire smile against his skin.

 

“Is it appropriate to say happy anniversary if it’s only of the day we met and not the day we started dating?” Grantaire murmurs. Enjolras is impressed at how many words he managed to string together while still toeing the line of consciousness.

 

Enjolras tips Grantaire’s chin up with the tips of his fingers, waits until Grantaire blinks tiredly at him, and presses a slow, soft kiss to his lips. “It’s an important day,” he says with finality. “We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t met one year ago today.”

 

Grantaire rolls his eyes but there’s the start of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I like to think if it hadn’t been today, it would have been another day.”

 

“Is that optimism I detect? In _my_ cynic boyfriend’s tone?” Enjolras demands. “What have you done to him, give me the real R back.” He laughs a bit breathlessly when Grantaire buries his face in Enjolras’ neck, groaning and blushing. Everything Grantaire _does_ makes him breathless. “I like it. The optimism. It looks good on you.”

 

“You’re rubbing off on me,” Grantaire says sourly, and it’s muffled by Enjolras’ shoulder. He gets the message all the same.

 

He tries not to think about it, where he would have been had Grantaire not messaged him so many days ago. He’ll find himself wondering if they would have found their way to each other eventually, if meeting sooner or later would have changed their getting together—if, if, if. It doesn’t do any good to dwell on what ifs, and he of all people knows this, but he can’t help but wonder.

 

“Happy anniversary,” he says finally.

 

Grantaire’s grinning against him, he can _feel_ it, and then Grantaire is kissing him messy and perfect and everything Enjolras has ever wanted. “I love you,” Grantaire murmurs, a bit breathless himself, and Enjolras kisses him again.

 

“I love _you_ ,” he echoes.

 

They’re content to stay like that in bed for a while, bodies intertwined and fingers tracing and lips pressing. Grantaire has a habit of waking up early and puttering around while waiting for Enjolras to wake up, and they’re both enjoying the chance to stay in bed and be lazy for a day. Enjolras finds it hard to believe they’d managed to go _months_ without this.

 

He thinks about how he’s going to function when Grantaire has to go back home, and then he decides to not think about it at all.

 

He’d fallen in love with Grantaire fast and blind, didn’t realize it until he was in too deep, and never really found the will to climb his way out. He’d had his doubts about long-distance, he’d had his insecurities and his fears, but—in the end, he’d decided Grantaire was worth it. It was a decision he had yet to regret. Now, he thinks he never will.

 

One thousand, four hundred and thirty seven miles; Enjolras would walk every single one of them to get to Grantaire again if that’s what it would take.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Grantaire mumbles. His fingers are absentmindedly tracing a pattern across Enjolras’ stomach, and it makes it hard for Enjolras to breathe. He decides that’s the general reaction he has to Grantaire.

 

His lips quirk up into a smile. “I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more,” he sings, mostly under his breath. Grantaire laughs and pinches Enjolras’ stomach, making him stop. “I was just thinking about how I used to worry about the distance. But it seems so trivial now, now that I’ve held you and kissed you and made love to you. I’m not worried about the distance anymore. I just don’t want you to _leave_.”

 

Grantaire frowns. “Those aren’t happy thoughts, and today’s an anniversary.”

 

Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek. He squeezes Grantaire’s hip and presses his lips against the top of his curls. “I know,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry. I’ve just been—reflecting. And thinking. And I’ve decided that you can’t go home because I’m not going to let you out of my sight ever again.”

 

“Guess you’ll have to come home with me,” Grantaire says. There’s a note of wonder in his voice.

 

“I would,” he admits.

 

Grantaire pinches his stomach again. “No, fuck you, we’ve already talked about this. You love Paris and it’s your home and that _means_ something. There’s nothing in Bucharest for you.”

 

“There’s _you_ ,” Enjolras shoots back, sharp. “You’re worth _all_ of Paris.”

 

Grantaire hides his face again and groans. “Oh my god, _shut_ up. That’s not—I had a _point_. There’s nothing in Bucharest for you, and soon enough there won’t be anything for me either. You’re _here_ , so here is where I want to be. I can sell my art from anywhere, I can teach anywhere. Your entire life is here. We’ve _talked_ about this.”

 

“My entire life is boarding a plane in three days to go back to Bucharest,” Enjolras says stubbornly, because Grantaire doesn’t _get_ it.

 

He can’t see it, but he knows Grantaire is rolling his eyes. “You’re so dramatic. I’ll be back before you know it. And eventually, I’ll be here for good.”

 

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Enjolras sighs. Grantaire growls against his neck.

 

“Are you done being a shithead on our anniversary?”

 

“I’m never done being a shithead,” Enjolras gripes back. “And another thing—”

 

He’s joking, mostly, and it gets him what he wants—Grantaire shuts him up by kissing him and keeps kissing him when Enjolras grabs his arms and holds tight. They shift, enough that Grantaire is resting on top of him, and Enjolras lets out a pleased sigh as Grantaire licks into his mouth.

 

Grantaire is an _excellent_ kisser.

 

It’s the best morning Enjolras has had in a long time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He dozed off at one point or another, not long after Grantaire climbed out of bed and pressed a kiss to his forehead and promised to be back soon. He’s gone off to get breakfast, or maybe lunch, and the bed is cold and Enjolras can’t help but drift in and out of consciousness for a while.

 

By the time he finally drags himself to wakefulness, he realizes near two hours has gone by since Grantaire left.

 

The thought makes him sit up suddenly, and look around the room in alarm.

 

There’s a Post-it note on the pillow next to him.

 

In Grantaire’s messy, perfect scrawl, reads _follow the post its x_.

 

Enjolras smiles, bright and wide.

 

The first one is on the door, yellow and daunting, and Enjolras climbs out of bed and stumbles towards it. It’s filled with Grantaire’s handwriting, though this time it’s neater and clean and beautiful.

 

 

**jun. 8**

 

we’ve known each other a month;

it feels like it’s been _years_.

 

 

Enjolras blinks, traces the words with his fingers and murmurs them to himself. He’s confused, but he _knows_ Grantaire, bone-deep. He’ll trust in that.

 

He grabs a shirt and jeans before making his way out of his bedroom. His apartment is cold, seems colder without Grantaire nearby. Enjolras supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that he’s grown so accustom to Grantaire’s being near him that his own home feels different in his absence.

 

He finds the second one on the wall outside his bedroom, right next to where the painting Grantaire gave him is hung.

 

 

**jul. 8**

 

i could have never imagined

we’d reach this point.

i’ve never had a connection like this

before,

and i can’t describe how

grateful i am

for you.

he kissed me a few weeks ago,

but he’s engaged to someone else

and i’m not enough.

somehow you remind me,

i was more than him before

and i am more than him now.

you’re there when

no one else is

and i cannot understand

the depth of my gratitude.

 

 

Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat.

 

He hadn’t forgotten about Alexandru, a man Grantaire had once fallen for despite his engagement to another person. It took a long time for Grantaire to even tell Enjolras about him, back when they were still only friends and hadn’t known each other all that long. Alexandru had kissed Grantaire out of the blue one night then disappeared all together, leaving Grantaire confused and alone and full of self-doubt. He found out later that Alexandru had gotten married after all, despite the night he’d spent with Grantaire. Enjolras had spent weeks consoling Grantaire and trying helplessly to cheer him up. He hadn’t realized how much it had affected Grantaire.

 

Even now, his heart breaks at the thought of Grantaire ever doubting himself. Enjolras’ heart is beating heavy in his chest, and his fingers linger on the note for a moment too long before he pulls himself away.

 

When he sees Grantaire again, he’s going to kiss him and kiss him and _kiss him_ until he realizes that he’s _always_ been enough for Enjolras, no matter what.

 

The next note is further down the hall, on top of one of Enjolras’ text books.

 

 

**aug. 8**

 

there’s a level to our relationship

that has long since surpassed

platonic.

i don’t know what to call it,

and neither do you, so

we let it go

and pretend we don’t

know why our hearts are beating

so hard

in our chests.

(we were so obvious, even way back when).

 

 

A hysteric, breathless laugh escapes Enjolras.

 

“Platonic,” he says aloud, mocking, tracing the word with the pad of his thumb. “Was there ever such a thing for us?”

 

The next one is on the window, overlooking the city where Enjolras will sit on his fire escape some days and breathe in the sight.

 

 

**sept. 8**

 

you’ve had a bad day and

for some reason it breaks my heart.

i do stupid things to try

and cheer you up.

i want to remind you that you’re

valid

and _good_

and _smart_

and _beautiful_.

i realize i could spend _days_

trying to cheer you up.

i don’t realize how

monumental

that is.

 

 

Enjolras can barely even _remember_ that. He’d gone to bed so early, sour and angry for reasons he can’t even remember now, and he’d woken up to a plethora of texts from Grantaire, all in an attempt to cheer him up. Everything from pictures of cats to music recommendations to links of recipes for him to try to posts reminding him that of his validity. He’d pulled Enjolras straight from his wallowed depths of self-pity and made him feel _whole_ again. How could he have forgotten?

 

Sometimes he thinks he’s been in love with Grantaire since before he could even imagine it at all.

 

He grabs a jacket before climbing onto his fire escape, and finds the next note pressed against the brick wall.

 

 

**oct. 8**

 

yesterday you told me you

were in love with me.

i was scared

and i was a fool

and i let my own insecurities

stand in my way.

we keep saying things are the same,

but i think we both know they’re not.

i’m sorry;

(i’m still sorry).

 

 

Enjolras closes his eyes and rests his head on the brick, lets the cold press against his forehead as his hands start to tremble. He’d bore his heart on his sleeve, he’d thrown all cautions to the wind, and he’d tried to tell Grantaire the extent of his feelings. Grantaire hadn’t believed him, couldn’t at the time, and was still struggling to pull himself away from the pain that came from being used and left behind. He’d said _no_.

 

Enjolras wants to shake him by his shoulders and tell him that it doesn’t matter now.

 

Now, they’re together. They figured it out in the end. Grantaire hasn’t a reason to still feel guilty about it. Enjolras _hates_ that Grantaire still feels guilty, anyway.

 

The next note is a few steps up the fire escape, folded and tucked in between the grating.

 

 

**nov. 8**

 

we aren’t talking.

it has been

weeks

but it feels like

 

years.

 

 

They’d spent a month without talking. To this day, it’s still one of the worsts months of Enjolras’ life.

 

The next three notes lead him farther and farther up the stairs of the fire escape.

 

 

**dec. 8**

 

i asked you to give me

a second chance.

by the grace of god, you _did._

it’s today that i realize i’m

in love with you;

or maybe i realize i

always was.

it’s tonight i that i think,

“you missed your chance.”

and it’s tonight that i think,

“don’t pull away again.

your heart

won’t be able to survive.”

so it’s tonight i make a choice.

 

 

_How could I not?_ Enjolras thinks foolishly, desperately. How could he not forgive Grantaire, when he was familiar to the _bone_ and everything Enjolras needed?

 

 

**jan. 8**

 

you’ve been gone for days

and i’m on a vacation of my own;

words can’t describe

how _desperately_

i missed you.

in two days, you’ll ask me if

we can give us a try.

 

in two days, you’ll make me

the happiest person on earth.

 

but i don’t know that yet.

 

so today i waste time,

sending you dumb snapchats

and delayed texts;

and i’ll wait for you.

i’ll always wait.

 

 

Enjolras’ heart is pounding in his chest. He’d wait, too. He’d wait a million years if it meant two minutes with Grantaire. A whole _week_ had gone by where he hadn’t been able to talk to Grantaire at _all_ , he didn’t have service overseas and it was the longest week of his life. Every damn notification on his phone from Grantaire made his heart pound erratically when he’d finally gotten home. It was almost worth the week of separation—almost.

 

 

**feb. 8**

 

it’s just a wednesday.

it hasn’t even been a month yet,

but it doesn’t matter.

it’s been the best almost-month

of my life.

you want to cut your hair;

i tell you that

you’ll be beautiful no matter what.

it’s just a wednesday;

i’m happy,

and you’re beautiful.

 

 

Absentmindedly, Enjolras tugs at a curl tucked behind his ear. He can’t take his eyes off the words _i’m happy_. _i’m happy i’m happy i’m happy_ —a mantra searing itself into Enjolras’ brain. Grantaire, who has struggled so long to find happiness in this world, admitting that he’s finally found it. Enjolras _loves_ him— _god,_ his heart is so full he’s afraid it’s going to burst.

 

He’s on the roof now, and the next note is on the couch someone had dragged up there long ago.

 

 

**mar. 8**

 

you’ve always been there for me.

today is no different;

you remind me that

      my anxieties

      my fears

      my doubts

are valid,

and you make me believe that

i’ve got to reason to be

afraid.

 

 

There’s a path of rose petals leading from the couch to door leading back into the building. The next note is there, and the door is propped open. Enjolras wants to roll his eyes at the cliche but he can’t quite breathe right and his heart is still beating rapidly and he’s not sure he can do anything but reach for the note and read the words desperately.

 

 

**apr. 8**

 

you spent the day with your best friend and

i sent you a text saying 

how glad i am to have you.

i’m _constantly_ overwhelmed by how lucky i am:

that you chose me

that you forgave me

that you _love me_.

i’m not sure you know;

i’ll text you every day to remind you

if i have to.

 

 

Courfeyrac had been holding his phone when Grantaire had texted him. It was a simple text, _i am so lucky to have you. god i love you_ , and Courf had teased him relentlessly and Enjolras had just smiled and pretended that seeing those words didn’t still make his heart skip a beat. They’d been dating for almost three months at that point—in a few weeks, Grantaire would fly out to Paris and Enjolras would meet him at the airport, and they’d finally be able to hold each other in the way they’d been longing to do for so long. Enjolras had thought the text was random at the time, but now he gets it—he’s overwhelmed, too, at the weight of Grantaire’s gaze and the love in his actions and the tenderness that seems to exude from him despite the bite in his words.

 

The next note comes in two parts, one at the top of the stairs, and one at the bottom.

 

 

**today**

 

today i wrote you this stupid poem

because today means something.

but

there aren’t enough words in any language

to accurate portray the depth

of how i feel.

today i wrote you this poem,

and i bear my heart on my sleeve,

and i pretend i’m not scared to death.

 

**today**

 

today marks three hundred and sixty-six days;

today marks one hundred and fifty-two days;

today marks one hundred and nineteen days.

three hundred and sixty-six days

of knowing you.

one hundred and fifty-two days

of loving you.

one hundred and nineteen days

of calling you mine.

 

 

Enjolras loves him, _god, he loves him_. Grantaire is good and beautiful and lovely and he’s crying by the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs, blinking past the tears that build in his eyes and following the rose petals down the hall until he’s back in front of his own apartment, the final Post-it note resting on his door.

 

 

**may. 8 (one year ago)**

 

today i’m staring at my keyboard.

you’re just an idea;

we haven’t even spoken yet.

 

soon, you’ll become my best friend.

we’ll click instantly, and

we won’t understand why that’s

important.

in the days that follow today,

we’ll have

one hell of a ride.

(it’ll make a great story one day).

friends, best friends, something more,

something less;

until _finally_ , soulmates.

soon—

but i don’t know that yet.

 

today i’m staring at my keyboard.

you’re just an idea;

i’m half-scared out of my mind.

 

today i hit send.

 

 

That _damn_ message, the first thing Grantaire ever said to Enjolras, a remark about the content of this blog he’d started. One godforsaken message, one that apparently Grantaire had been _terrified_ to send, and now they’re _here._ Here, in Enjolras’ apartment, stupid in love and happier than they’ve ever been and surrounded by _rose petals_ of all things. Here, a year later, only a _year_ , and Enjolras has loved him for so long and he’ll love him forever, he already _knows_ it—he can feel it in his _bones_ , the same way he felt Grantaire and _knew_ it was familiar.

 

He opens the door and Grantaire is standing there, beautiful and wide-eyed and terrified again. He’s got flowers in his hand, the fucking _sap_ , and Enjolras doesn’t even think about it before he’s crossing the room and taking Grantaire’s face in his hands and kissing him like he’s got no time left. Grantaire gasps in surprise and Enjolras _loves_ this, he loves that he can make Grantaire gasp and writhe and whine. He’s still crying and maybe Grantaire is crying, too, but it’s happy tears and those seem to be all he cries nowadays. He’s so damn happy, he hasn’t got a care in the world.

 

“I love you,” he whispers, wrecked and full of love. Grantaire stares at him in wonder, as if he can’t believe that Enjolras could ever feel that way. The damn idiot wrote him a _poem_ , trailed its parts across the building and made Enjolras _cry_ ; he’s so overwhelmed with love for Grantaire that he doesn’t even know what to do except kiss Grantaire again and again.

 

Grantaire is laughing against him, shoulder-shaking laughs and he _is_ crying and Enjolras tries to kiss him again. “I love you, too _,_ ” he finally says, kissing the corner of Enjolras’ mouth, his nose, his eyelids.

 

Enjolras _loves_ him.

 

“I love your stupid poem,” Enjolras says. “I love _you_. You’re worth everything to me, please don't forget, I’d forgive you a thousand fucking times, I don’t _care_ anymore. You’re beautiful, you’re _so good_ —”

 

He knows he’s babbling, but to his credit Grantaire just lets him, pressing kisses across his jawline and neck, and he holds Enjolras in his arms and they’re both trembling, or maybe it’s just him, but Grantaire _loves_ him and that’s all that matters.

 

“I take it the poem was a good idea,” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras laughs half-hysterically. “I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

 

_How in the hell_ — “I could have gone without the goddamn goose chase all out and around my apartment building,” he shoots back, but its a damn lie and they both know it. “You _dumbass_ , you wrote a goddamn poem about our entire fucking relationship and you remember _everything_ and it was beautiful andyou thought I wouldn’t _like_ it?”

 

Grantaire hides his face in the crook of Enjolras’ neck.

 

“I love your stupid poem, and your stupid face, and you, stupid,” Enjolras says, quite dumbly.

 

Grantaire just laughs into his skin.

 

Enjolras will carry the joy of that sound forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_aug. 11_

 

**To: R <3**

[7:13] what’s the verdict?

 

**From: R <3**

[7:27] spoke to valjean on the phone today, he confirmed it. I GOT THE JOB. moving to paris in less than three weeks<3

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://feuillyys.tumblr.com) crying abt les mis or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tannscotts) posting about various things.
> 
>  
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


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